just a quick intermission to tide y'all over

chapter 8 will be a while coming

There were two beds in Buford's hospital room. His own had already bowed comfortably under his weight, and the heart monitor had become a soothing sound that let him knew he was still alive. He had survived the attack. His ribs were cracked, his legs broken, arms torn and bruised... but he had survived.

The other bed was empty.

Buford didn't know if Baljeet was alive or not. He had only briefly seen his friend as they were pushed into the ambulance; he had sustained much less damage, but at the same time, he was much weaker. They had to do surgery. And it wasn't the surgery Buford went through, where they stitched him up and put him in casts - it was major surgery. Something about a punctured lung.

He could be dead.

This was all Phineas's fault. That wacky little shit always seemed a bit too eager to mess everything up. Of course he'd dabble in reanimating the dead, why not? And Ferb, who was a zombie no matter how advanced Phineas said he was, would obviously end up going berserk and trying to murder everyone. It was basic science fiction - but Phineas did it anyway. That little nutjob needed to be in a hospital way more than Buford did. A mental hospital, that is.

The doctors said he had a bit of head trauma from the fight. Buford had waved it off, but he couldn't deny that he had a killer headache and couldn't really keep his focus. He thought he kept falling asleep, but couldn't be sure; everything felt like a dream. Ever since he first saw that abomination reality had started falling to pieces.

"Yeah, everything is a little topsy-turvy, isn't it?"

The door was still shut. The window was locked. The lights had been turned down low by a nurse a few hours prior, and had not been raised.

"You're wrong about one thing, though. It didn't start going wrong today. It started going wrong when Ferb died."

It was Phineas who stepped into Buford's field of view, his eyes glowing even in the dim light. There was blood on his face, his sweater, his hands... he was covered in it. When he opened his mouth, it dribbled out from under his tongue, painted his teeth and chin like the careful strokes of a paintbrush.

"It's not going to get better, either. Normal doesn't exist anymore."

Buford tried to shake his head, but he found himself unable to move. "The hell is wrong with you? Why are you doin' this?"

Phineas grinned like the Cheshire Cat, but the cat had fallen into the garden, got covered in the paint meant for the roses.

"Because I'm God, Buford. And God does whatever He wants."

The paint on the walls was chipping away to reveal something much more sinister underneath - a blue glow, bright as the stars, piercing Buford's soul.

"I killed them all," the wall droned. "The nurses. The officers. Baljeet."

"No," Buford whispered.

"I killed them all," it repeated. "I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending."

"So sayeth the Lord," Phineas chimed in with a laugh. "Amen."

The door opened, and in a flash, the vision was gone. The walls were white. The lights were dim.

"He's stable," said the nurse in the doorway. "We'll be keeping him in Intensive Care for the night. Then he can join you in here, sweetie."

Buford could only nod. She was gone in an instant, the door shut in her wake. He found himself unable to recall her departure. She was there, and then she wasn't.

He was alone.

Unable to move his arms, Buford sobbed openly into the empty air, his tears cascading down his cheeks and drenching his neck and ears.